Jean Prouvaire's Birthday
by JenValjean24601
Summary: Jean Prouvaire recieves two hundred francs for his birthday, and he decides to spend most of it on a young prostitute named Eva.


"Two hundred francs!"

Jean Prouvaire looked uncomfortable, and turned back to his wine. "Courfeyrac, you know I come from a wealthy family," he said.

I had already known that, but two hundred francs still seemed on the high side to me, no matter how wealthy one's family was. On my twenty-first birthday last year, my parents did nothing for me, let alone set me loose in Paris with my pockets full of gold. Now that I think back on it, it's probably best that they did not. The thought of me, rich and most likely a little drunk, roaming the streets of Paris the night of my twenty-first birthday is a bit frightening. But I simply replied to my friend, "Yes, I know that."

Jean Prouvaire looked at me expectantly. "You still haven't answered my question," he told me.

"I'm sorry, I've forgotten it already. What did you ask?"

Jehan sighed. "I asked your opinion as to how I should spend my birthday gift. I don't know what to do! I've never had this much money at once before."

"And I have!" I exclaimed.

"Well…" "Let me think," I said to him. "We're at Corinthe now, near the Rue Mondétour. What's around?" I pondered the map of the surrounding area. Finally, I said, "I suppose we're close enough to one of the theatre districts that we might be able to see a play. What do you think of that?"

Jean's face brightened. "I think that would be a good idea. Do you want to pay a visit to the Café Musain first, to see if we can gather any of the others to come with us?"

"I don't think we have the time. We'll miss any of the ten o'clock shows if we don't leave right away."

"That is true," Jean Prouvaire agreed. He stood up and brushed himself off. He held out a hand to help me up. "Shall we go, then?"

"We shall."

And we walked out of the restaurant arm in arm, hurrying somewhat to the theatre.  
  
Coming out of the theatre, Jean Prouvaire and I were both in high spirits.  
"That was fantastic, Courfeyrac!" Jehan laughed. "What a marvellous idea!"

I gave a dramatic bow. "Thank you! Thank you, Monsieur!" I said with a theatrical flourish of my arms. "But, my dear fellow, as you know, everything I do is marvellous!"

Jehan laughed again, and thread his arm through my own. Turning to me with an childlike smile, he said, "But where shall we go next? The night is young!"

"Young!" I exclaimed, startled. "It's one o'clock in the morning! You're usually asleep by now!"

Jean Prouvaire grinned impishly. "But you're not," he reminded me. "And I'm spending my birthday with you." He started to walk, and I followed him. "Now let's go!"

"Ah, but you're made a fatal mistake, Jehan: it's not your birthday anymore," I told him. "It's past midnight! And that means that I have the pleasure of deciding where to go next, and how to spend your remaining one hundred and fifty franks." I halted, and looked around, thinking about which café was closest to our current location. Then I remembered. "How about a cup of the Café Lemblin's famous coffee, Jehan?" I suggested. "It's just a few streets over."

"Sounds marvellous, Courfeyrac."

"Everything I do is marvellous."

We started our journey to the café, linking arms and laughing together, just enjoying each other's company. The streets were mostly abandoned at that hour, but that did not bother us. On the contrary, it was probably better that way. I am not the quietest fellow in Paris, and sometimes passer-by become aggravated with me.

After a few moments, though, our laughter attracted attention. We had just passed by a dark, rundown alleyway. Neither of us had given it a second glance until we heard an inhuman cackle coming from inside. Startled, we both swung around.

At first there was no one, but then a small, white figure materialized from out of the darkness, appearing like some malevolent phantom. As the apparition approached us, I began to make out that the it was a girl. She was small; she couldn't have been more than fifteen years old. A worn nightgown concealed her emaciated body, and, even though it was the height of summer, she clutched a tattered brown shawl close around her shoulders. She was battered all over. Her bare arms were covered in scratches and bruises, standing out sharply against the white of her skin. Her red hair fell almost to her waist. If it had been neatly kept, it would have been beautiful, but it was held back in a bedraggled braid. She carried an antique handbag, torn in places and discoloured, with her free hand. A few silver seed beads still clung to the thin fabric in the outline of a flower. It was probably her most prized possession. All of this I assimilated in an instant; it was her face that I stared at. Her eyes were gigantic and wild. One of them was a deep, dark purple colour. At first I thought that it was a vain attempt at making herself up, but then, in horror, I realized that it was a bruise. Her cheeks were covered in dust, but even through the filth I could see the blush of her youth. Perhaps that was because a few thin tear marks cut through the dirt. Her mouth was tiny and prim. She had messily applied red rouge to her lips, but a closer look revealed that some of the red was dried blood, not makeup. I was repulsed by the poor girl, and a glance at Jean Prouvaire told me that he felt the same way.

The girl appraised the two of us, looking us both up and down several times. At last, her eyes fell on me, and she moved towards me. Appalled, I involuntarily took several steps backwards. The girl's face fell.

She next approached Jehan. He remained perfectly still while the wretched creature advanced on him. She encircled his waist with one of her bony, alabaster arms, while rubbing his chest with the other, her pathetic purse hanging from her skeletal wrist. Standing next to Jean, the girl hardly reached his shoulders. My heart almost broke to see how small she was.

The girl then gazed up at Jehan with her sad eyes, seemingly searching his face for something only she could see. After a moment, she murmured in a broken purr, "Monsieur….would you care to come with me?" She reached up for his face with dirty hands, but only after she had transferred her satchel to her other hand, I noticed. Tracing Jean Prouvaire's jaw with a tiny finger, she added softly, "I'm not that expensive." The young prostitute seemed almost embarrassed to admit that fact.

I watched Jean Prouvaire very deliberately take the girl's face in his hand. He lovingly caressed her cheek with his thumb, while gazing into her eyes. Staring at him, I grew more and more disgusted…Jehan wasn't seriously going to take her up on her illicit offer, was he?  
The girl's lips broke out in a slight smile, but the misery in her eyes remained. "Your hands are so soft, monsieur," she told him adoringly. "It should be nice…for a change."

Again my heart went out to the child. How many pairs of hands had stroked her dirty body? I would never forgive Jean if he added his to her count, not in a thousand years.

But Jean Prouvaire ignored her comment and asked instead, "What is your name?"

"Whatever you want it to be, monsieur," she answered, pressing her body close to his, and manoeuvring her thigh in between Jean's legs. She lifted up her lips to his.

_Oh, God, he's not going to do this, please tell me he's not going to do this…_

Jean Prouvaire looked down upon her for just a moment before gently pushing her away.

"What is your name?" he repeated, more sternly.

Hesitantly, the girl answered, "Eva." Then she threw herself back upon Jean Prouvaire, crying, "Please, monsieur! You must take me! I need the money! Please!"

But Jean said nothing. Eva wept even more at his silence. Finally, Jean Prouvaire bent down and picked her off the ground. Leaning her against himself, he reached into his coat and pulled out a white linen handkerchief. Mutely, he wiped away her tears. He then bent down again, this time picking up her purse. "You dropped this, mademoiselle," he said simply, holding it out to her.

She took it back from him, all the while studying Jean Prouvaire's dainty features. The look on her face told me that that was the first time in her life anyone had ever addressed her as "mademoiselle."

"It used to be pink," she told him. Turning the worn satchel over and over in her hands, she murmured, "Pink is my favourite colour."

Jean Prouvaire did not answer her. His eyes had a faraway look to them.

Eva never took her eyes off of Jehan for a moment. She asked him, "Monsieur, why are you out on the streets this late, if you are not looking for a woman?"

Jean Prouvaire answered her question with another question. "Where do you live?"

"Around," she replied. Then she came on to Jean Prouvaire for a third time. By this time, I was no longer concerned that Jean Prouvaire wanted to buy the girl's services.

Desperate, Eva stood on the very tips of her toes, and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Please," I heard her whisper in Jehan's ear. "I will do anything you want. Anything. Just take me."

For the last time, Jean pushed her away. Reluctantly releasing him, Eva stood before him, her eyes quietly filling up with tears.

"Alright, monsieur," she finally conceded. "As you wish."

The wretched girl slowly turned around and began to walk away.

"Wait."

Eva eagerly turned around at the sound of Jehan's voice. "Yes, monsieur?"

Jean Prouvaire jogged over to her. He reached into her coat and pulled out his pocketbook and the one hundred and fifty francs. Wordlessly, he handed it to her.

Eva opened it. Her eyes widened when she saw how much money she was holding. She went to take Jean Prouvaire's hand, but he waved her away.

"Take the night off," he said to her. Then, leaving her gaping at him, he walked back towards me. He said nothing; he simply took my arm, and turned in the direction of his house.

After a few minutes of silence, my curiosity got the better of me. "Jehan, why did you giver her all of your money?" I asked. "I thought you were going to buy yourself a birthday gift."

Jean Prouvaire stopped, and looked me directly in the face. Then he answered me. "That was my birthday gift."

And I understood, and continued walking him home.


End file.
